Shadowed Depths
by Ashes of the Wake
Summary: Corruption wreaks havoc throughout the Empire. The general populace is corroded with cowardice. An invading army rapily approaches the continent. And the very word 'hero' is a mere mockery of its former self. Hope is all that remains.. [MorrowindOblivion]


**Disclaimer**: I do not own Bethesda Softworks. The names of specific locations and characters, however, created by the before-mentioned, have been applied to an original storyline with original characters to further enhance the enjoyment of potential readers.

**Chapter One**:

The moon hung like a sickle over the small thorp. Ceaseless rain and veiling clouds added a counterpart to the already frightening scene, branches blowing aimlessly about, forced to comply with the howling winds. Shadows danced demonically on stoned walls and the overall abode of Seyda Neen; a décor of horrors. The continuous downpour quickly turned the hard-packed dirt and grass into elemental sludge, a substance barely suitable for treading, increasing the aura of depression as not a single person dared to brave the hazardous paths. The setting seemed to be derived from a child's nightmares.

And it was.

Varsava Darkblade sat shivering within the depths of a tree, both visage and frame concealed by branch and leaf. This fact, coupled with the increasing rain and visual impairment due to the enveloping dark, all but hid the youth from the outside world. Hazel eyes, widened from fright, sporadically darted back and forth in a desperate attempt to analyze security. The small, tawny frame of the young man, garbed solely in a meager attire of stained cloth and worn leather, quivered almost uncontrollably, partly due to the chilling rain, but mostly because fear was allowed to wreak havoc throughout the subconscious of the child.

A trembling hand brushed wet strands of red-blonde hair from the youth's eyes as he continued his relentless scan of the neighboring area, mind wracked in superstition and childhood myths. _Get a hold of yourself, Varsava_, the youth berated himself. _Are you nothing more than a child? Remember that there is a job to be done._

Shaking his head to dispel such childish aspirations, Varsava quickly averted his attention to a decrepit tree trunk in the middle of a small, murky pond, mind slipping into the halls of remembrance as he struggled to overcome fear and decipher the reason he was voluntarily waiting in a tree during a storm.

"_Do you want to eat this month or don't you," Hrisskar asked, aggravation clearly distinguishable in his tone. Deep-set blue eyes stared menacingly down at the youth before him, a small grimace playing across otherwise dull features as he impatiently awaited an answer, large, booted foot rapping insatiably at the wooden floorboards. Hrisskar was an ample man. Standing well over six feet, the seeming giant radiated strength, chest the girth of a barrel and arms the size of wooden planks. A mane of startlingly blonde hair surrounded a hardened face; a face whose etched lines seemed to derive from hardship rather than age. Clothed in light armor and with a belted sword at his hip, Hrisskar was every bit the Imperial soldier, his demeanor unforgiving and word unimpressionable. _

_Varsava chanced a glance upward into the eyes of his employer, offering a small nod as a form of agreement before tentatively speaking, voice low and subdued. "What would you like for me to do, milord?" A small sigh followed the question as he inwardly cursed himself for his own weakness before once more turning his attention to the thunderous roar that was Hrisskar's commanding presence. _

'_Relinquish' Fargoth of rightfully due gold to the Empire_, Varsava thought to himself, recalling the smirk that accompanied the words Hrisskar had spoke earlier that very same day. Imperialism was always the same. Domestication with proposed protection; subtle subservience instilled within the general public with the reassurance of security. Freedom held little importance as long as stability was maintained. A farmer would easily turn an indifferent eye to a blatantly public rape as long as food was available to be eaten and a whore readied for rutting. Who could blame them, though? Carnal desire held higher precedence than humanitarianism.

A movement jarred Varsava's attention into the present, hazel gaze narrowing despite the lack of illumination to properly assess the approaching form. The small, almost comical form of a Bosmer was stealthily making its way toward the tree-stump, head constantly turning to reassure privacy, frame stumbling every so often as a root or rock surprised the man in the darkness. _This must be Fargoth_, perceived Varsava.

A few moments of waiting unearthed the precise reason why Varsava was so diligently perched atop a branch for more than an hour. In the rain, no less. Fargoth, or so it was perceived from the distance, placed an object or two within the hallowed tree-stump before turning on a heel and cautiously making his was back to what was believed to be his home.

A smiled played across the youth's surprisingly handsome features as he leapt from the tree onto the soft, forgiving earth, landing perfectly in balance without the slightest hint of difficulty, despite the fact that the distance from tree to ground was roughly ten feet in height. Agility came as an easy feat for the thirteen year old Nord. Being constantly on the move due to his particularly hazardous profession of thievery, Varsava quickly built both stamina and muscle. Intuition and wit, however, followed close suit, as the youth was forced into proper perception of the outside world in correlation with his employment. Although dangerous, the life of a thief was physically and mentally rewarding at times, sharpening and honing skills useful in everyday life. Diplomacy and charm were of a second nature to the boy, lies rolling easily from a silvered tongue to an angry merchant, sweet nothings offered to attractive young girls before all innocence was stripped away in one orgiastic moment. The life of a thief was indeed full of enjoyable pleasantries.

Warily the young man approached the now abandoned tree-stump, eyes widened and shimmering with an animalistic nature, fingers absently twitching in a borderline nervous manner. Discarding his poorly fashioned moccasins, Varsava proceeded to cuff his pant-legs, tentatively stepping into the congealing green which was the murky pond.

Bare feet dangerously walked upon the wet mixture of clay, rock and mud as the thief pressed forward, the water gradually rising with each step until reaching just below knee-length. Halting, Varsava placed both palms on the decrepit wood of the trunk, hoisting his lithe frame slightly upward. Peering into its depths, the forsaken tree-trunk revealed nothing short of a small fortune: a gold-inlaid ring of polished silver, a novice lockpick, and a rather prodigious canvas bag containing what must be at least two hundred pieces of gold.

Quickly securing these items, Varsava turned, only to be cannoned into the now empty trunk by a thunderous blow to the temple. White lights flashed before the youth's eyes as he fought to maintain consciousness, regaining his composure in time to narrowly avoid a second attack. Backing away, Varsava scanned his assailant, noting the lack of height and the almost laughable weight the man carried. Once more… this was Fargoth.

Attempting to clear his clouded senses, the young man spoke, voice calm and collective in a hopeful diversion. "Vivic's balls, man. You could have blinded me with that cane!"

Seemingly out of breath, despite the lack of physical assertion, Fargoth responded, tone wracked in anger as he sprang forward, cane posed for yet another pass at the youngster. "Blind you? Blind you! I plan on doing far more than that, you stinking thief!"

Crouching, Varsava leapt forward in a somersault, the length of wood hissing past where moments before his head has been. Righting himself, the youth struck out, leg sweeping the enraged man from his feet, body sprawled out on the solid ground surrounding the pond. Pouncing upon the fallen Fargoth, Varsava delivered a quick left to his unprotected jaw, followed closely by a staggering right which easily bypassed the guard of the Wood Elf. Tugging at the wooden cane, the thief pulled away, circling the now rising man with the weapon held firmly in one hand.

"Calm yourself, Fargoth. In all honesty, I am doing you a favor."

Wiping the mixture of blood and snot from his broken nose, Fargoth clenched his fists until the knuckles mirrored white from stress. He advanced a few paces more before warily crouching into a somewhat defensive position, not willing to be surprised by superiority of youth's strength and speed. A few uneasy moments passed while both individuals assessed the situation at hand, thunder and lightning adding a counterpart to Fargoths rage. Breaking the silence, Fargoth spoke, voice surprisingly monotonous and without the promise of aggression.

"How is that, boy? _You_ doing _me_ a favor by stealing my life savings?"

"If I did not come here tonight and steal your belongings, you would be dead on the morrow. Hrisskar would see to that personally."

The Wood Elf shook his head slightly before seating himself on the less than sturdy ground, further soiling his already mud-caked trousers. Resting his head against the palms of his hands, Fargoth sighed, the sound heavy with sorrow. Upon looking up, Varsava was surprised to see a small grin on the face of his apparent attacker.

"Why are you smiling," queried the young man, sitting down opposite the seemingly bemused Fargoth.

"Because, boy. Can you not see the humor in this? An elected officer, sworn to uphold justice and champion righteousness, pilfering from those he took an oath to protect. And is there anything a commoner like myself can do? Of course not. Corruption is thick within the Empire. No point in complaining, though. All we can do is continue with our lives and try to forget the hardships imposed upon us by our own government. The world is truly a comical place."

Standing, Varsava walked over to where the bag of gold forsakenly lied, lifting it up before turning and tossing it to the elf. Scouring the ground, the young thief managed to find the ring, but not the lockpick, deciding the endeavor a lost cause, at least in this weather. Returning to where Fargoth now stood, he offered a small smile before speaking.

"I cannot believe I am doing this, but I have decided not to rob you. I suppose it was your emotional story of corrupted officials and struggling farmers. I suggest you leave before the sun rises." Masking his stupidity with sarcasm, Varsava attempted to quell the feel of unease in his stomach, turning around and beginning the long walk back to the Bitter Coast region and his home.

"Hey! What about my ring," Fargoth shouted at the back of the departing man. "That is my lucky ring. It has been in my family for generations."

_Lucky_, thought Varsava as he slipped the ring onto his middle finger. _Luck is definitely something I am going to need once Hrisskar hears of my mistake_.


End file.
